To the passed covered in dust, those on the curb soaking wet, and those in the fast lane driving through puddles. Cheers to the passengers aboard The Number 26
“Don’t be concerned madam” I tell her while shoveling the coins mixed with tiny fragments of glass off the stairs and into my coat pockets. An honest days work for an honest days pay.
Huckleberry Finn floated by St. Louis on his little wooden raft, and nothing bad, or good, or anything in particular happened to him there, besides him just floating by. I hope I just float by and nothing happens to me too, because anytime anything does happen to me it’s almost always the wrong thing.
“Nowadays happiness it seems comes with a receipt, sanity comes in a bottle, and beauty comes from the leather around your feet.”
In twenty-six slashes of an angry pen, I enact my bloodthirsty revenge. An indigo insolence five thousand and twenty-six years in the making, a cuneiform callback as old as anger and ink and implements. A brilliant crescendo of rage, all staccato and forte and I’m the conductor, and for twenty-six seconds I feel strong, and there, just there on the seat, the culmination cut in the cream:
I woke up on the 26 bus It goes straight to his house 26 is also in his number And in mine Maybe it’s the universe telling me something Maybe it’s just a coincidence But I hope its not His hands reach out When he’s single 9th grade We made out in the movie theatre … Continue reading Passenger’s Story, by Tsuko Johnson